


5 Weeks: Wounded Pride and Loose Change

by VanStock1992



Series: The Half-Life Of Morphine [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caregiver Fatigue, Caregiver John Watson, Depression, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Financial Issues, Guilt, John Watson is a Good Doctor, John Watson is an okay-ish parent, John is a Mess, John's Anger Issues, M/M, Medical Conditions, POV John Watson, Parentlock, Physical Disability, Self Loathing, Therapy, Traditional Masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29988261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanStock1992/pseuds/VanStock1992
Summary: Only weeks after bringing Sherlock home from nearly a month in hospital, John struggles with the reality of losing his identity of part-time GP and the Consulting Detective's blogger to becoming the primary caretaker for a husband with physical limitations.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Half-Life Of Morphine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204169
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	5 Weeks: Wounded Pride and Loose Change

**Author's Note:**

> Five weeks after Sherlock's accident, John Watson-Holmes meets with his Mycroft-assigned therapist to discuss the emotions brought to the surface by a simple letter that arrived to 221B.

John Watson hadn’t wanted to go back to therapy so soon after bringing Sherlock home. No, he took that back. He was a father to a toddler and a husband to a man with new physical challenges. He hadn’t wanted to go _anywhere_ other than the front door of 221B to pick up the mail, medication and grocery deliveries. There were appointments at the hospital- so many so that he sometimes wondered why in God’s name they even bothered leaving- but other than that all John wanted to do was lock their little family of three into 221B, bundle up in warm pajamas and never leave their bed unless it was to grab more DVDs from the sitting room cabinet or snacks for Rosie.

She had slept in his and Sherlock’s bed only occasionally before the accident, but their weeks living at St Bart’s while she stayed with Molly, Anthea and Mrs Hudson had reignited the separation anxiety phase John had foolishly believed she was long past. Perhaps consistency in her schedule and reassurance they would be there when she woke could have been enough to reestablish the trust that he and Sherlock weren’t going to disappear on her again, but that was quickly undermined by the fact that Sherlock seemed to desperately need her there as well. They’d been close before the injury, before she and John moved back to Baker’s Street even, but Rosie was an intelligent child, or so Sherlock regularly proclaimed. She knew something was wrong and wanted to be in on the action instead of stuck worrying about it from the cot she was quickly outgrowing upstairs.

None of that was the point, because John was not snuggled up with his family. Sherlock and Rosie were watching a National Geographic show titled _‘Wicked Tuna’_ while eating microwaveable popcorn and blowing through juice boxes like they were taking a bath in them. He, on the other hand, was sitting in his therapist’s office because a piece of mail had sent him into a tizzy.

A piece of MAIL.

The very mail he had no problem fetching every day except this piece of mail took him so suddenly by surprise. Granted, John had known in an abstract sense that- yes- Mycroft managed Sherlock’s finances and allowed him only what it took to cover his bills, food and transportation, whatever that was at the time. There was a direct deposit into Sherlock’s personal account every month that John didn’t think too much about as he wrote out checks for every other utility while Sherlock paid the rent. That was their deal and he had been able to cope with that. It worked well for them. John worked at the surgery, Sherlock took cases and they split the care responsibility for Rosie approximately 40/60. They had a system.

A check from a bank that likely wouldn’t even allow John into their lobby was most certainly not part of their system.

“If I understood your email, John, you received a check in the mail and it’s causing you a degree of discomfort...” Doctor Erica Carlisle said, a detectable amount of judgement in her tone. “Why is that?” 

John gestured at the floor in exasperation, because how could it not be clear? “I’m an adult. I’m a husband and a father and I’m supposed to support my family, not accept handouts so I can lounge on my arse all day.”

“Do you consider being a full-time parent and primary caregiver to a disabled spouse to be physically and mentally taxing?” She asked. “Or is it really as easy as you’re dismissing it to be?”

Was it easy? Of course not. But it wasn’t a _job_. His job was at the clinic with Sarah and drippy nosed patients that couldn’t comprehend viruses were not shortened with the use of antibiotics. Caring for his family was entirely different. It was his duty.

“I’ve always paid my own bills. Caring for family isn’t supposed to earn me a bloody paycheck.” He spat, because this was the place he could. A place where he didn’t have to reign in the anger and practice such constant patience that was required in his position. A place where his raised voice wouldn’t scare Rosie or earn him the timid looks from his husband for the days that followed. “It’s not who I was raised to be.”

Doctor Carlisle pursed her lips and cocked her head, and he could tell she was pointedly ignoring the second statement. Maybe because it wasn’t relevant, or maybe because his family didn’t raise him to be an honorable kind of man at all. 

“What about your army pension? You receive that check each month because your military career ended earlier than expected with a gunshot wound to the shoulder and psychosomatic limp. Do you have a problem with that money?”

The burning skin on his face was second only to the fact that someone was now actually yelling and he was no longer sitting and the person who was yelling was him because where the hell did she get off saying that?!

“I was shot! How can you think that compares to-“ John sputtered, and struggled to even come up with a suggestion to himself as to what that next word might have been, let alone the next complete thought.

The scratching of her pen was all the sound in the room for a while besides the white noise machine tucked next to the door to the waiting area. It seemed louder than their at home, and he felt a twinge of shame upon realizing that Erica’s model had a dial and for John’s session she had cranked it up as high as it would go. Even after time away, she knew how these appointments tended to go.

“How did Sherlock sustain his injury?” She asked, although she knew full well how from the email he sent when requesting the appointment. Mycroft likely already sent her a more in-depth summary, because he couldn’t imagine a Holmes respecting the confidential nature of the therapist to clients relationship. “Not the method, but what was he trying to accomplish when he was hit?”

John shook his head, still in disbelief that people reduced Sherlock to the moment it happened and not the moments after. “He didn’t try to accomplish anything, he got right off the pavement and chased after the perp. The man had murdered two of his estranged children and was holding a third captive. Sherlock saved her and is the reason the other two will be receiving justice. He wasn’t some idiot that wasn’t looking where he was going.”

“That does sound like a very noble cause to sacrifice himself to,” She agreed. “And not something an idiot would be able to accomplish. Is Sherlock’s service to London any less deserving of respect than yours to Britain?”

“What?”

Erica shrugged. “You were in the army for three years before being shot nearly a decade ago. There are men walking around today that never would have survived without your fast thinking and experience. Sherlock has been working with New Scotland Yard for thirteen years. Because of him, hundreds of violent offenders are behind bars and their victims’ families can have that peace. Is an injury received in that pursuit any less deserving of compensation than your own?”

Of all the lines of questioning he predicted she would choose, this was not one of them. At least she was kind enough to give him an out in the form of an inaccurate depiction of circumstances. The implications of her actual point twisted his gut in knots even the world’s most experienced sailor couldn’t untangle.

“This isn’t a pension or disability coverage,” for the most part. He chose not to mention the policy the Holmeses had taken out years before. “It’s trust fund money. Old wealth and posh public schooling with rowing teams and Oxbridge after passing A levels. It’s not any part of my world.”

She frowned. “Except it is, because you married someone who’s part of that world. Someone who, like you, is now receiving payments out of an account set up by someone other than himself for an injury he sustained while serving Queen and Country. The only difference I see is who set up the account and the severity. I’d say a head injury as well as a bone fragment damaging the spinal cord is a fairly severe injury with more long lasting impacts. You were never in a wheelchair or bed bound beyond the first week or so in hospital, were you?”

“No, but-“

“And, you weren’t shot four years ago only to flatline on the operating table then go into cardiac arrest again the following day.” 

John rolled his eyes. “I get it, he was shot by my wife, haven’t we talked this to-.”

“Let me finish,” His therapist said, head cocked to the side evaluating him for something or other than John was beyond noticing. “And you weren’t beaten within an inch of your life- fractured ribs puncturing a lung, concussion, bleeding kidneys- while trying to save the life of your closest friend.”

The blow was lower than low, but that was what Mycroft had found Doctor Carlisle to do. After John nearly killed Sherlock, and still wanted to find a way back into his life, a therapist of Mycroft’s choosing was part of the deal. He’d spent hundreds of hours in that room over the last few years and what happened to Sherlock was a foundational topic of conversation. 

No, what John did to Sherlock. People weren’t thrown to the concrete floor of a morgue and nearly killed as a matter of coincidence. That was something that was done _to_ Sherlock, _by_ John, and he forgave him anyway. How, he still didn’t know. For someone that claimed to be a sociopath for so long, John’s husband never seemed to shed his sense of loyalty the way John repeatedly did so with his sense of responsibility for his own actions.

Sherlock married him- a man who put his hands on Sherlock on more occasions than John knew he could recall, as it had become so normal both before and after the fall. He adopted John’s daughter that he’d had with a woman who shot him, who Sherlock also forgave without a second thought because he believed it was what was best for John. Damn it all, the man heard the words _‘go to hell’_ to _‘save John Watson’_ from Mary’s lips and took it as a bloody challenge. 

John’s husband saved his life just by existing, brought fire and the thrill of life back to him just by proving he was still breathing, and made a vow that he did everything humanly possible to keep. 

Now, all Sherlock needed was his partner to remain available to be a caregiver instead of in a therapist’s office in the middle of an ego trip. Could he not just do that? Why was it so bloody hard for John to wrap his mind around even when he could recite the facts like he knew how to make tea.

“John, are you still with me?”

Snapping his neck up, and out of his thoughts, John wasn’t sure how long he had been quiet. Only that he lacked a leg to stand on, so he sat himself back down.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He rubbed his eyes.

Erica’s lips turned up. “About what, exactly?”

“He needs me and I’m letting my pride get in the way of caring for him.”

“I never said that.”

Fingers tugged at his roots a bit too hard and he lowered his arm, unaware he had started to begin with. “You didn’t have to.”

“Because it isn’t true.” She said sympathetically. “You stopped both your lives when he was hurt, including the career as a doctor that you worked incredibly hard to become. With that, you’ve lost your method of bringing income into the household. The separation from your daughter for several weeks was incredibly stressful even if you did visit her. 

“Now, Sherlock’s family- your family, in turn- is releasing funds that were set aside for this exact purpose so you can use your skills as a medical professional in a different application. That change is huge, John. Most would hire a home health service or allow the NHS to provide it, but you are taking on the responsibility.”

John huffed both at the understatement and of her glorification of such an inglorious task. “It’s tea and medication. It’s not the heroic undertaking you’re making it out to be.”

“Maybe not, but you and I both know it’s more than tea and pills.”

He flinched at the last word, mostly due to the fight he received that morning over even the low dosage of tramadol. “It is.”

Oh god, it was.

“Sherlock wouldn’t take anything more than his gabapentin today.” John told her, allowing the anger to fade while nearly tearful frustration persisted. “He said he wasn’t going to be on anything that could affect his cognitive function while taking care of Rosie.”

His therapist appeared thoughtful and then nodded. “That makes sense to you, given Sherlock’s history with opiates?”

“No, not really.” John said, even though it was only a half truth. “His tolerance is through the roof. If I wasn’t administering his tramadol or morphine myself, I wouldn’t know. The pain takes more out of him than the pills do.”

“Did he appear impaired this morning?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s been a good couple of days that I know won’t last but it’s been nice.” A four the day before and a five that morning were far from disagreeable. They were also following a trend that was heading firmly into the territory John hated that they continuously had to revisit.

“Is it possible that, at some point, you could go back to the clinic on a locum like basis? Only say yes on days you feel comfortable leaving, perhaps? Would that make it easier to accept the money to allow you to stay home to care for Sherlock, knowing that it is at least partially temporary?”

Despite the knowledge that Sherlock’s injury was decidedly _not_ temporary, that was the question on John’s mind as he took an opportunity to walk home, basking in the warm sun on his skin he missed far more than he’d realized. It wasn’t something he could do immediately, but the spark of hope that it might be possible someday- when they established some type of routine or found the proper cocktail of medication, put a small smile on his face and splinted his wounded pride.

_Someday._

John quite liked the sound of that.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a shameless slut for comments, questions, suggestions and kudos. The more that people answer and engage, the more inspired I am to write.
> 
> I'd like to take a few requests for little snippets like this one. Let's do some world building together <3


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